O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.I something do excuse the thing I hate.

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not

Not to speak it profanely.

Striving to be better, oft we mar what's well.

For it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours

I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient.